


Lock and Key

by ManiLea



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU, Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-15 23:45:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManiLea/pseuds/ManiLea
Summary: After Superman's funeral, Diana disappears. Bruce realises he still knows almost nothing about her and attempts to draw her out. This is what happened between Bruce and Diana from the end of BvS to the beginning of Justice League. Submitted for the Wonderbat Holiday event on Tumblr.





	1. Lock

“It’s not possible,” Bruce growled at the screen. “These armed gangs in Atlanta, assaults in Berlin. Metropolis is unrecognisable. I can’t be in all these places at once.”

The television behind him announced breaking news. There had been a mass shooting at a school in Singapore. One of the safest cities in the world. Alfred met his gaze with a grimace.

If Superman was still alive, hundreds of those lives would be too. If only Superman was still alive. His face burned at the thought that he had wished for it. How had he imagined that killing Superman would save lives? That he would pick up the slack? He was no replacement for a man of steel.

There was someone who might be. A woman of steel. The beautiful antiques dealer who went by the name of Diana Prince. He had seen the power in her as she had struck Luthor’s monster with her sword. She had been thrown a hundred yards and barely suffered a scratch. He had only seen her like in Superman. 

But she wasn’t a Kryptonian. They had spoken briefly after Superman’s death. Bruce had taken the body to Smallville at Lois’ request and Diana had come with them. On the drive Bruce had explained what the spear was and how he had made it with the intention of killing Superman himself. Diana had accepted his explanation without judgement.

“You didn’t reply to my email,” he had said.

She had looked puzzled for a moment and then replied, “Yes. Thank you for the files.”

“You didn’t answer my questions.”

She hadn’t looked at him but a wry smile had crept onto her face. “Have you heard of the Amazons?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“Look them up. But I can’t promise that everything you read is true.”

Bruce wondered if she’d have told him more if Lois hadn’t been sitting in the back. When they had arrived at the Kents’ house, she had carried the body inside and Lois had invited them both to the funeral. Bruce had intended to offer Diana a ride back to Metropolis or wherever else she wanted to go, but she had vanished.

He had researched the Amazons, of course. They were immortal women warriors from Greek mythology. That told him little more than he had already worked out. There were still so many missing answers. Why was she living as an antiques dealer in Paris? Where were the other Amazons? Why had she been photographed in her armour with a bunch of World War I soldiers when nobody had heard of her? What exactly had made her go into hiding? If he knew the last, he might be able to draw her out it.

He pictured her large dark eyes and the elegant curve of her neck. He considered himself exceptionally good at drawing women out. She would be a challenge to seduce – his greatest yet. Not only was she extraordinarily beautiful and powerful, but she was disenchanted with men and closed off. A challenge like that would certainly be a distraction from the bitter regret that was otherwise plaguing him.

But no, he needed her as an ally. Mixing personal relationships with work was a sure way to make a mess of a plan. He had to win her trust so that she would be ready to help as soon as the next alien threat surfaced. He also needed to know exactly who she was before he could trust her.

Bruce loaded the image of the 1918 Belgian photograph. There was no photographer’s name on the file or the image itself, but few people went around with a camera in twentieth century war-stricken Europe. He wrote an email to the director of the Martha Wayne Foundation, granting a large sum for students, historians and artists to go to France and Belgium to uncover forgotten First World War photographs. An exhibition would be held in Gotham for the most interesting and unique of them. 

He sprang to his feet. “I’m going to Metropolis. Here’s hoping I can do a fraction of what _he_ would have.”

There had been a knife attack in the daytime, but the attacker had been arrested and the police had cordoned off the road. The area was known for gang crime, so Batman patrolled the roofs in case anything else broke out. 

Alfred spoke in his earpiece. “Strange activity going on behind the city museum. A number of people got out of a van. Looks like they’re waiting for something.”

A red cross flashed at the location on his GPS.

By the time he reached the museum, the men had already got into the premises. They hadn’t cut through the wire fence – someone had let them in. The side gate was open and a padlock and chain were lying on the floor. He launched a batrope to the top of the attic windows and sprung himself up. He smashed the window and crawled inside.

His night goggles showed their body heat on the other side of the floorboards. They were coming up to the attic. He went silently into the corridor and threw two batarangs into the stairwell. The yells and thuds gave him an estimate of two hits. He threw a smoke bomb and leapt into the stairwell. 

His feet crashed into a stomach, pinning it to the ground and his fists met the next thief's face. He wrestled the man and locked his wrists into a cuff. One of the batarang victims emerged through the smoke, his nose smashed and bleeding and his arm outstretched. A sharp punch to the neck and he was on his back again.

Batman cuffed the rest of them and put on his goggles to check for any more. Someone was hovering at the bottom of the stairwell, but Batman didn’t think he was a criminal. He went down. It was an old man with dreadlocks and a huge collection of keys at his belt. He held up his hands.

“Please! I’m only the janitor.”

“Then you should call the police.”

“They must have been after the Superman memorabilia upstairs. They were preparing to set up a display in memory of him. We’ve got a landmine that he deactivated, a car door that he ripped out with one hand and even one of his capes! All that has shot up in value since his death...”

Batman stalked past the janitor. They didn’t have Superman’s cape. 

A sign in the corridor caught his eye. American Soldiers on the Front: 1914–1918. The arrow led him to an exhibition room with a maze of glass display cases. He followed it round, only glancing at each piece for a spilt second. In the centre was a low table displaying newspaper cuttings.

One was in French: ‘THE WOMAN OF WONDER’. A black-haired warrior in plate armour flanked by four soldiers stared out at him. It was Diana’s photograph. The article described how the wonder woman had run head-first through gunfire in No Man’s Land, stormed the German trench and liberated the town of Veld. The plaque translating the article into English had a note at the bottom: ‘Metropolis City Museum is grateful to Alexander Luthor for the donation of this artefact.’ Batman took a photo of it.


	2. Key

“You’ve been sent the shortlist of the Forgotten World War I Photography competition,” called Alfred from the computer.

“That’s not important any more,” said Bruce, walking over with a glass of whiskey. “Pick whichever one you like.”

“The one of the Amazon warrior? It would be rather unkind to draw unwanted attention to your friend.”

“I know about–,” But the image was not from the newspaper cutting in Metropolis City Museum. It was a smooth stand-alone print on thick card. “No, don’t pick that one. Contact whoever submitted it and ask where they found it. It might be the original.”

Alfred raised his eyebrows as he began typing out the email. “That’s a first.”

“It’s not for sentimentality. It’s research. If I’m going to ally myself with her, I have to know where she comes from, what her motives are, how powerful she is...”

“...what her kryptonite is?”

Bruce reached for a batarang. He didn’t throw it, but Alfred saw where his hand went. He pinched his lips together and turned back to the screen.

“Ah. We already have a reply. This young history and politics student found the photo on a flea market in Leuven. A woman was clearing out her father’s house, it seems.”

“Offer to buy it.”

The photograph arrived at Wayne Manor by post the following week. It was in a glass frame; its edges were pristine. Bruce took it down to the Batcave and scanned it. It was the right age. He took a notecard from his desk and scribbled a message: ‘Maybe one day you’ll tell me your story.’

Alfred didn’t need to see it. He would only make snide comments. Bruce shut the photograph and note in a briefcase and drove it to Wayne Tower himself. The briefcase was to be flown to Paris in a private jet, picked up by employees from the European branch of Wayne Enterprises and transported to the Louvre in a secure van. It was certain to reach her, and the sooner the better.

Bruce spent the next evening in Metropolis and the early hours of the morning patrolling Gotham City. He’d been awake for 20 hours, but he couldn’t resist checking his email before he went to bed. There was one from her.

‘Thanks for bringing him back to me’.

That was it. Bruce slammed his fist on the desk. After all that trouble, he’d got one sentence.

“Erm. What is the problem, sir?”

Alfred was in his dressing gown.

“I sent Diana the photo. I’m trying to pick her brain, but I’m getting nowhere.” Bruce looked at the email again. He had unlocked one clue. He now knew why Diana had wanted the photo in the first place. Who was _he_?

“Master Wayne, you cannot safeguard both Gotham and Metropolis, and collect relics for an immortal lady. You have to drop one of these obsessions.”

“I’ll drop the Diana thing once it’s solved. I have to go to Paris.”

“Fine. I’ll prepare the plane for tomorrow. Right now you’re going to eat breakfast and go to bed.”

Bruce got out of his chair. “I’m also going to need a private tour of the Louvre and a secure telephone.”

The following night he was out in Gotham for only a few hours, investigating an arms trafficking chain. It was just enough to give him a picture of who was involved with what. He would act on the case after Paris. He returned to the manor for some sleep, then got on the plane.

Once alone in the cabin, he brought the picture of the newspaper cutting up on his phone. Which of the four men was Diana’s _him_? The article didn’t mention them by name, only that British and American troops were involved. One man appeared to be a Native American and another wore a Scottish cap. The brown man had probably been recruited by the British. The blonde man wore a non-descript flight jacket.

It was a grey winter’s afternoon, and the vast lobby of the Louvre was empty and echoing. One member of staff was available at an information desk.

“Bruce Wayne. I have a private tour with Diana Prince.”

The receptionist clicked at her computer. “The Mighty Aphrodite? Madame Prince will be waiting for you at the entrance to the Sully Wing.”

Diana was standing very still at the top of the stairs, her head tilted right to one enormous gold-framed painting. Her hair was coiled around the back of her head and she wore a long draped off-white dress. If it weren’t for the warm tones of her skin, she could have been mistaken for the very sculpture of Aphrodite. Bruce’s breath momentarily escaped him.

She did not look surprised to see him. They had probably told her the name of her guest in advance. 

He smiled pleasantly. “A competitor of mine is developing something under the name Omphale. I am hoping that seeing the painting here will give me an idea as to what it is.”

“Someone who knows where the real Sword of Alexander is doesn’t need an introduction to Hercules and Omphale. What do you want from me?”

He lowered his voice. “I need to know that you will respond when the time comes. You have fought before, but you don’t any more.”

“That’s not true.”

“You had the press take your photograph in 1918. Now you devote yourself to artefacts of heroes that have faded into myth. Are you still on the side of justice? What happened to Wonder Woman?”

Diana looked him steadily in the eye. “Come with me. I’ll tell you her story.”

She took him to a cafe on the floor below with small square tables and upholstered chairs. There were a few other guests – an elderly couple and a researcher. They sat next to a half-open window. Bruce wondered why she hadn’t chosen somewhere more private.

“The Amazons were brave and fierce warriors, created by the Olympian gods to protect the world from injustice. But if they left their island, they could not return to it. After the first three thousand years of their existence, a child was born to Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. Her name was Diana.”

The waitress served them coffee and a macaron each. Then the story continued. 

She described how the princess of the Amazons grew up to be the strongest of them all. Her paradise was broken one day by a pilot named Steve Trevor, who crashed into the waters surrounding the island. He told the Amazons of a terrible war in his world. Diana knew that the God of War, Ares, was behind the hatred in men’s hearts and believed that she could stop him, so she left the island with Steve.

But stopping the war turned out to be more complicated than killing one being. Diana saw the ugliness of man’s world, its endless cruelty and the dishonour with which the war was fought. There were too many people to help. Often, they did not want to be helped. Ares inflamed the hatred of men, but he was not the root of it. It took Diana too long to realise that.

She might have given up if it had not been for Steve. He saw the madness around him, but did whatever good he could in spite of it. He did not believe in Ares, but he took her to the front because he believed in her. There were tears in the present Diana’s eyes as she told Bruce that she had loved him. 

“Steve gave his life to save thousands of others from weapons of mass destruction.”

“And what about Ares?”

“He was the one who told Diana that she was the child of Zeus, and so a god. It had been her destiny to kill him all along. And she did.”

Bruce had to remind himself that she was telling her life story, not a myth. “What happened after?”

“The war ended. But two decades later there was an even bloodier war and no Ares to kill,” Diana folded her arms and leaned forward. “Are you satisfied now?”

“I’d say so,” Bruce placed a small box on the table. “I’d like to give you this. It’s an encrypted cell phone. My number is already on it. Contact me if you come across anything out of the ordinary.”

Diana nodded once and swept it into the folds of her dress. “I have another appointment now. Thank you for visiting the Louvre, Mr Wayne.”

Bruce pondered over the details of her story while he sipped the dregs of his coffee. The waitress asked him twice if there was anything else he wanted. It was then that he realised that Alfred had been right. He had become too invested.

Normally when trying to win over a woman, the whole thing would be over within a few days and he would only have got to know her at a very shallow level – what her favourite drink was, whether she responded more to sweetness or teasing. Never what bedtime stories her mother told her or when it was that she had first tasted ice cream.

He had had his tour of the mythical Greeks. Every piece of information he had uncovered about Diana over the weeks since they had first met had revealed in her the courage of Demeter, the wisdom of Athena and the love of Aphrodite. He had made the terrible mistake of thinking of her as just a woman or even as just a warrior. Of course she was a goddess. He had allowed himself to fall for a goddess. Worse, he had fallen for a goddess who was still in love with a dead World War I pilot.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to the fandom, so I hope I got details about the Bat's operations right :3
> 
> Merry Christmas!


End file.
